HOW ONE MOOR REMAINED, AND FIVE WENT AWAY

Two days had passed from the time that Rodrigo entered Burgos with the spoils which he had taken in the mountains of Oca, and Teresa NuÑa, Ximena, Lambra, and Mayor were amusing themselves, talking to and caressing the Moorish boy, saved by the kind-hearted Castilian general on the field of battle. The boy was very handsome, and spoke the Romance language with tolerable facility, as he had learned it from the Christian captives who had always been servants in the house of his father.

Those kind women had received him well, as Fernan prophesied, and lavished on him all the caresses which a tender mother has for her children when she sees them sad and disconsolate. The poor little fellow, who, notwithstanding the kind manner in which Rodrigo treated him, had been sad and downcast, now recovered courage and joyousness; and even tears of gratitude and pleasure sprang from his beautiful and expressive eyes. Lambra was almost mad with delight on account of the handsome boy; the honoured and faithful dueÑa, who had envied a thousand times the happiness of mothers who had children to caress and to be caressed by, saw in anticipation the joy she would experience when her mistress and Rodrigo would be married, a joy which was her golden dream, and which would consist in having children by her side, to whom she could be, in a certain sense, a mother. Even Mayor participated in the contentment of her mistress and of the dueÑa, for without doubt she saw in that pretty child what she hoped the fruit of her love for Fernan would be.

The tender sympathy which binds children to women certainly moves and consoles the soul, whether those women are mothers or those who have never experienced the pains and delights of maternity. A poor, unprotected child often appeals in vain to the heart of a man, but never to that of a woman. When, covered with rags, shivering with cold, and famished with hunger, it appeals to public charity in the streets, let us count the men and the women who aid it, and we will see that the number of the former is very much less than of the latter. What consoling words often escape in such cases from a woman's lips!

"Have you no mother?"

"Poor little angel!"

"Alas for mothers who have given birth to children, to see them thus!"

Such as these are the words which the lips of women pronounce over the unhappy child.

Let us bring back our memory to the calm days of our childhood, let us bring to mind what sex it was that dried our tears, impressed kisses on our cheeks, lulled us to repose with songs, watched over our sleep, took part in our games, divined our wishes in order to satisfy them, wept when we were in grief, and celebrated with deep contentment our good health and joy. The name of a woman will be always bound up with those recollections, whether it be that of our mother or of some other. God, who foresees everything, who never entirely abandons the weak, has given the child a mother in almost every woman.

Let us wander through the streets, let us go into villages, let us enter the dwellings of the wealthy, and then let us pass on to the cottages of the poor—wherever God has not given a vulgar and stony heart, we shall find the essence of poetry and of sentiment in the multitude of names with which, everywhere, women express their tenderness for children.

"My love!" "My delight!" "My treasure!" "My glory!" they exclaim, kissing with rapture the rosy cheek of an angel. And those names, not studied, but rushing spontaneously from the heart, are they not of more value than all the loving expressions that poets have ever invented?

The sentiments with which children inspire women raise them above vulgar surroundings, and purify their souls with the holy fire of poetry. When we see women filled with such feelings, let us ask them why they love children, and they will reply to us with these words, or similar ones—

"Because, when we seek for angels on earth, we can only find them in these little children."

If for other qualities, for other virtues, for other attractions, women do not merit the love and respect of all generous and good souls, they deserve it for the sympathy which children awaken in their hearts.

Let those be blessed and loved who understand and experience the feeling which moved the lips of the divine Nazarene when He said, "Suffer the little children to come unto Me!"

"Ismael," said Ximena to the Moorish boy, "did you ever know your mother?"

"Yes, kind Christian; she was beautiful and good, and loved me as you do; but Allah took her to Paradise just at the end of the last Ramadan."

"Son of my soul!" exclaimed Teresa NuÑa, "and did you love her much?"

"Ah yes," replied the child, "and yet she did not take me with her."

His eyes overflowed with tears, and he continued—

"When holy Allah called her to Paradise, my father and I wept very much. A short time after the king was enrolling people for the war, and my father asked me, 'Would you wish to go see your mother?' 'Oh yes,' I answered. On that very day he took me up behind him on his horse, and we set out for the frontiers of Castile. 'We are going to the war, my son,' said my father to me, on the road; 'I trust that we may be killed in it, for then we shall fly to Paradise, and never again be separated from your mother, who is there.'"

The boy interrupted his story for a moment, bursting into sobs, and then added—

"My father went to Paradise to see my mother, ... and he too did not take me with him."

"Poor little fellow!" exclaimed the compassionate women, who surrounded Ismael, caressing him and endeavouring to console him, just as affected as he was.

"Unhappy child!" said Lambra; "what he wishes is to return to his own country."

"Would you like to go back to your native country, my son?" asked Teresa. "Do you wish to return to Molina?"

"My parents are not there now," answered the child in a despairing tone. "I wish to remain with you, who are good and loving like my mother."

"Well, then, remain with us; for we will love you, as your mother did, my son."

"How good the Christians are, how good!" exclaimed the child, not knowing how to show his gratitude to those who were pitying and consoling him.

"And would you like to be a Christian?" asked Teresa NuÑa.

"If you are to be my mothers, I will adore the Prophet whom you adore. My mother used to say that children should adore the God that their mother adored; and does not the Nazarene, your Prophet, love children?"

"Yes, my son; children are the principal objects of His love: He delighted, when He was on earth, to converse with them, He was angry with those who ill-treated them and prevented them from going to Him, and He leaves the gates of heaven always open for them."

"Oh, how good your Prophet is! I wish to adore the Nazarene," exclaimed the child enthusiastically.

Teresa NuÑa and Ximena then left him for a short time, feeling sure that Lambra and Mayor would take good care of him while they were away.

Soon after Fernan came in, whilst the two women were questioning the child respecting his country and parents, and the boy was replying to them with visible emotion.

"By the soul of Beelzebub," exclaimed the squire, "they are simply fools to torment this poor little chap by reminding him of the good things he has lost, which is the saddest of remembrances. That's the way women always understand tenderness; they kiss just as cruelly as they bite. I will ask my mistresses, DoÑa Teresa and DoÑa Ximena, to entrust the training of this little Moor to me; he is worth all the Moors in the world. They will soon see how I shall make him a perfect horseman, and also able to give lance thrusts, which will be worth a king's treasure."

The tone of Fernan was rough enough, and his words severe; but the face and manners of the squire were stamped with such frankness and goodness of heart, that Ismael, far from being frightened, ran to meet him, and clasped his legs affectionately with his little arms.

"May I turn Moor," said the soft-hearted squire, "if this young chap isn't worth all the spoils we took in the Oca mountains! Every time I think of it, I feel more inclined to give that fool of an Alvar a good cudgelling for finding fault with Don Rodrigo because he put this splendid little fellow into a litter."

And Fernan took up Ismael in his herculean arms, and kissed him with enthusiasm, saying—

"I would give you a thousand kisses, only that I am afraid of rasping your rosy cheeks with my beard; but I will shave, and then I can kiss you as much as I like. Are you fond of arms and horses, my boy?"

"Oh yes!" cried the child, jumping with joy. "Have you arms and a horse?"

"Of course I have," answered the squire. "To-morrow morning we will go to the stables, and there I will teach you to ride, and to use a lance and sword. I swear by Beelzebub, that when you grow up, you must come to the wars with Don Rodrigo and me, and fight like Bernardo at Roncesvalles."

"Bring me to the stables now," said the child, "and show me your horse and arms."

"You are very impatient, little chap. But I suppose I must humour you; and your vivacity pleases me."

And thus speaking, Fernan took the little Moor by the hand, who was jumping with pleasure and impatience to get to the stables.

"Don't take the child away, Fernan," said Mayor, "for if my mistresses ask for him, they will be annoyed with Lambra and me for not having kept him with us."

And she went to take Ismael by the hand which was free, in order to remove him from Fernan; the squire, however, pushed her away, and disappeared with the boy, saying—

"He will go wherever I please, and all the women in the world shall not take him from me. By the soul of Beelzebub, that is a nice way to train up children—keeping them always tied to women's petticoats! That's the way hens bring up their chickens—and they become hens."

When the squire and the boy arrived at the stables, Fernan showed the horses to Ismael, who was insisting on being put on the backs of all of them. At last, to satisfy the child, Fernan mounted him on Overo, which he saddled, and the animal, with a patience comparable to that of his master, yielded to all the caprices of the child; sometimes quickening his pace, sometimes going slowly, now turning to the right, now to the left. They then went to the harness-room, and Fernan prepared to give Ismael his first lesson in the use of the lance. He made him mount, in a saddle placed on an arm-stand, put into his hand, to serve as a lance, a stick a few feet long, made a mark on a post in front, and fastened a strong piece of cord to the front of the arm-stand; he then gave him, as a shield, the cover of a tin vessel used for carrying water to the horses, through the handle of which he put his arm; when he had thus accoutred him, he lectured him on the proper way of holding both offensive and defensive arms. Then the good Fernan ordered him to prepare to charge, and to keep his feet well in, so that they might not be hurt; the boy did this, and the squire, taking hold of the cord, dragged on, by means of it, the arm-stand and him who was mounted on it, very quickly. The boy made his thrust too soon, and did not strike the mark.

"I vow to Judas Iscariot," exclaimed Fernan, "that he will spoil his best strokes by his impetuosity."

"My horse did not gallop fast enough," replied the child.

"Well, then," said Fernan, "get ready for a second charge, and take care not to miss your aim."

"You will see, you will see how I shall hit the mark this time."

The little Moor got ready again, and Fernan pulled the cord more rapidly than before; Ismael, however, made the thrust too soon, and went even farther from the mark than on the first occasion.

"By the soul of Beelzebub," cried the squire, stamping fiercely on the ground, "that would put holy Job himself out of patience. He thinks, I suppose, that he will do better by making his thrusts too soon."

"I won't charge any more now," said the boy, more vexed by his own want of dexterity than by the annoyance of Fernan. Then throwing away the tin cover and the stick, he began to run back to the place from which the squire had taken him.

"Come back, my son, come back," cried Fernan; but it was in vain, for Ismael was already with Lambra and Mayor.

"Curses on my impatience!" exclaimed Fernan, giving himself a cuff on the side of his head. "What else could the poor little fellow do but run away from me, when I treated him worse than a slave?"

He then went off in search of the little Moor, and shortly afterwards they were playing together as if both were children.

Whilst Fernan was thus amusing himself with Ismael, another scene, not less interesting, was being performed in a large apartment, in which the De Vivar family usually assembled. Rodrigo was relating to his parents and to his wife the innumerable brave deeds of his soldiers at the battle of Oca, remaining silent as to his own, for the noble cavalier was as modest as he was valiant. He spoke also of the bravery of the enemy, for he was so just and honourable that he could not refrain from praising merit wherever it might be found.

"The hostile army," he said, "was numerous; but there were very many who fought for no other cause but that of pillage, and it was those who first turned their backs on our swords and lances. The Castilian troops fought with great bravery; but the victory could not have been won so soon if the enemy had had a few hundred men as brave as their leaders. Those Moorish kings, whom I brought here as prisoners, in order that they might do homage to my parents and to my Ximena, for you are all worthy of it—those kings, I say, and especially Abengalvon of Molina, fought as valiantly as the most perfect cavaliers in the world."

"Oh, how unfortunate they are, and how worthy of being well treated!" exclaimed at the same time both Teresa and Ximena, whose souls were always inclined to compassion.

"For that reason," said Rodrigo, "I have treated them not as wretched captives, who are generally loaded with chains, but as kings, to whom those who receive them in their houses allot the best apartments, believing themselves honoured by having them under their roof; for that reason I intend to restore them to liberty this very day, if you, my parents, and you, Ximena, approve of my resolve."

"Yes, Rodrigo, yes," exclaimed all, with pleased accents. "Sad captives!" added Teresa. "In their own land they have, most likely, wives, children, or parents who weep over their absence, believing them dead or lost to them for ever."

"My son," said old Diego, giving his trembling hand to Rodrigo, and visibly affected, "your heart is worthy of a cavalier; not in vain was I the author of your being, not in vain does my blood run in your veins, not in vain are you descended from the noblest race of Castile. Oh, if Lain Calvo, your grandfather, could raise his noble head from the sepulchre! During my long life I have constantly laboured for the cause of Castile—to make it greater and better—for the honour of our house, and for the triumph of the faith; and God has amply recompensed me by giving me a son as good as you are. My strength is failing, my breathing is becoming difficult, my term of life is but short; but what is death to a cavalier when he dies honoured, as I am, and when he leaves a successor as good as you are? Restore to freedom at once those royal captives; in the eyes of your father, and in the eyes of all that are good, such an act of generosity will be one of your best triumphs."

Yes, Diego was right; on that day Rodrigo achieved one of his noblest triumphs, for to him, the most affectionate of sons and the most loving of husbands, the greatest glory was the words which he heard from his parents and from his wife, and the pleasure which they experienced by his act.

"Dear parents and dear Ximena," he said, as moved as they were, "let us go now to set the captives free. If they wish to acknowledge themselves our vassals, let them do so, but if not, they shall be equally free."

Rodrigo and his family then proceeded to the prison of the Moorish kings. We have said to the prison, but the apartments of Abengalvon and his companions did not deserve such a name. They were situated in the ground floor of the building, having an entrance into beautiful gardens, and were certainly in every respect suitable for kings. Rodrigo and his family descended to them by a wide staircase, which placed in communication the two habitable floors of which the building consisted, and then requested permission of the Moors to be permitted to present themselves to them. The royal captives came forth to meet them with signs of respect and apprehension, and were about to prostrate themselves before Rodrigo; but he prevented them, with kind words, which filled the hearts of the Moslems with confidence and gratitude.

"The chances of war," he said to them, "placed your destinies in my hands, and for that reason it is my right to dispose of you as I may wish. Do you acknowledge that right?"

"We are your slaves," humbly answered Abengalvon, who was more conversant than the others with the Castilian language, and who was also the youngest of the five Moorish kings, as he was only about five-and-twenty years of age.

"Well, then," continued Rodrigo, "you were my enemies when I conquered you on the field of battle, but you fought with valour, and you bear the title of kings; for these reasons I treated you all, not as slaves, but as friends."

"Who would not be ambitious to be considered as such?" exclaimed Abengalvon.

"My desire is to be your friend," said Rodrigo. "Know," he continued, "that I consider myself so good a subject, that I love and revere all who bear the name of king, and I should consider myself dishonoured if I retained kings as prisoners, even though they are Moors, enemies of my faith and of my country. Return, then, to your kingdoms, and be, according as your hearts may dictate, my friends or my enemies. I comply with what my heart, and the hearts of my parents and wife, whom you see here, dictate to us."

"Oh, blessed Allah!" exclaimed the Moors, raising their eyes, moist with tears, to heaven. "The prayers of our children and wives have reached you and caused you to feel compassion for love and misfortune. We shall sound the praises, in the midst of our families, of the noble Christian who to-day teaches us to be generous and good."

And Abengalvon continued, addressing Rodrigo—

"No, we shall not be your enemies; we desire to become your vassals, as such to respect you and to pay you tribute, and also to become your friends, in order to love you. Let us kiss your hand."

"Come to my arms, if you believe me worthy of yours!" exclaimed Rodrigo, as much moved as the Moors were.

They embraced him, weeping with joy, as did also the honoured old Diego Lainez, Teresa, and Ximena, who were looking on the scene with much emotion, and whose hands the Moors then kissed, manifesting that they felt honoured by being allowed to do so.

"Mother!—Ximena!" said Rodrigo a moment after, "open the gates of their prison for those who have been our captives, but who, from this day, shall be our friends."

Teresa and Ximena then went to a door which gave egress to the street, and pulled open the two wings of which it was composed.

"The gate of your prison is open to you," said Rodrigo to the Moors. "Return to your homes, bring consolation to your wives and to your children, and may God be with you, my friends! Outside you will find good steeds to carry you, and squires who will accompany you as far as the frontier, bearing my green standard, so that neither nobles nor peasants shall dare to molest you."

"We are your vassals, and every year you shall receive tribute from us," said Abengalvon.

He and his companions then left the palace of De Vivar, their eyes dimmed with tears, and blessing Rodrigo, Diego, Teresa, and Ximena with all the fervour of which their souls were capable.